abnormally attracted to sin
by crimson and bare
Summary: When Bellatrix is alone to her thoughts, the strangest of things surface. Oneshot.


Obsessions

a glimpse into the tortured mind of the one and only Bellatrix Lestrange

His eyes are so cruel.

Just like she can be so cruel.

Bellatrix watches him leave her, all alone. She is sitting on the sofa, feeling unnaturally cold. She would say her heart aches to watch him leave, but she doesn't have a heart. Why would she want one? Compassion is bred out of the good purebloods. It is a worthless accessory to the mind, withholding everything beautiful and painful.

All she cares about is that he is talking to her again. The horrid misery of the past four months tore at her flesh, devoured her bones. He would never forgive her for what she did. All she could do was pretend she was still his most precious Death Eater.

He did call her that once—_you precious thing_. Though, she will never admit this, but most of the time she is just a bitch to him.

This agony has lasted for a lifetime, and she wants it to end. She got what she decided she wanted, but it isn't enough. It never would be enough. Sometimes she regrets the very moment she begged him to sleep with her. She was only eighteen, and brash. But, she knows it is all she can have. And she will take what she can get.

The only thing Bellatrix has ever wanted, truly yearned for, desired so much that it overcame every bit of reason in her body, is the Dark Lord. Since she was eight years old, looking into his cruel, cruel eyes, she knew what love is. It's not love, though. It is obsession.

And she enjoys her obsession. She relishes in the fact that she is living the life of a Death Eater—better than a Death Eater—she is the Dark Lord's right hand woman. She would do anything for him.

It's like she whispered, one night, in all her desperation, in all her longing, "I would do anything for you, my lord. I would lie for you, I would kill for you, I would _die _for you."

And he replied, calmly, not even making eye contact, "I know, Bellatrix."

She told him she loved him once too. The first time she did, at least. She is certain she has screamed it a thousand times.

She simply started with, "I have something I need to tell you, my lord."

And he replied, "What is it, Bellatrix?"

He did not sound annoyed with her, so she continued with what she dreamt of doing.

"I love you," she said softly, barely able to force the words out.

He smiled at her. He has a wicked, but truly charming smile.

"I've known that for as long as you have," he said, and she was silent.

If she did have a heart, that would have broken it. Just like when her sister decided a mudblood was worth more to her than her _own sister_. Bellatrix would do anything to go back and time and stop that mudblood whore. She could knock sense into her, she could... she could... somehow...

Bellatrix turns her mind away from that as fast as she can. She has done so much to make sure Andromeda is entirely erased from her past. But she loved her. Oh, she _loves _her. She still loves her sister, even though she is such a disgrace, such a traitor. Betraying her blood is worth death, but betraying her sister... someone who cared for her when no one else did... Bellatrix doesn't even know what punishment that could deserve.

She takes in a sharp breath, trying to become aware of herself again. Her mind has been so loose since she got out of Azkaban, plunging her into her nightmares while she is awake, if she is alone for a little too long.

She doesn't want to be alone.

Staring down at her hand, she examines it for a moment. Pale, incredibly bony, for some reason actually obeying her. Her pointed fingernails have dried blood underneath them. Hers, of course. She knows the looks of her blood, the quality of it, the taste of it. Some would find that disgusting, but she rather enjoys it. The Dark Lord doesn't mind it either.

She _is_ disgusting, isn't she? She knows what people say about her. It's hard not to know the monster people believe her to be. But their crimes are from some twisted side of their mind, some pathetic longing.

Every crime she has committed has been a crime of passion.

A monstrosity of true love.

Her eyes wander to her arm, the Mark seared into it. She once drew one on herself, as a child. It is easy to remember the pain, the ink mingling with the blood as she nearly carved it into her young, innocent skin. But it is nothing compared to the true and honest burn, which she knows.

She feels the burn, but she doesn't feel the pain.

Where is her mind?

She needs to escape this room. Her eyes dart around and she doesn't quite know why her pulse is racing. She is going mad, absolutely insane. The paranoia attacks her at every moment.

Paranoia wears at her, and desperation rules her body.

Her most beautiful memory, what she treasures most, is that one kiss, so long ago. She was young, sixteen, watching through the door into the meeting of the Death Eaters. She wasn't watching her mother, her uncle—they were meaningless figures in her childhood. The Dark Lord was the only adult she ever knew, though he had never once spoken to her.

They walked out before she could make a quick escape, and her mother cornered her. She wanted to know exactly what her _darling _daughter was doing. But the Dark Lord stepped in. She was numb, frightened and captivated. He asked her that one question, the one question that matters.

"What do you want, Bellatrix?"

And she told him what she did want—or at least a fragment of it. She wanted to be a Death Eater. But not just one of those meaningless servants. No, she wanted to be the greatest servant he could ever have.

Then he kissed her.

It was manipulation, according to Narcissa, of course. He knew that would cause her to do anything he ever asked for. But she wants to imagine it was love.

She needs to imagine it was some kind of affection—or she could never live with herself.

That was the moment her life was set.

And from that breathless, spontaneous motion, she had no choice left anymore.

She will have the Dark Lord

or die trying.


End file.
